


pathological

by TheElusiveOllie



Category: Stargate Universe
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Frustration, Gen, Introspection, POV Third Person Limited, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 00:04:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5846110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheElusiveOllie/pseuds/TheElusiveOllie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief study of Nicholas Rush as told by Eli.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pathological

**Author's Note:**

> Another incomplete work I found while cleaning out my Google Drive, completely devoid of any context whatsoever. I did some cursory editing just so I could put it somewhere since I actually rather like some of it.

_Lotta work,_ Young keeps calling him. 

Well, shit. 

He’s right.

Rush is the kinda guy who works in theory and thinks in theory and _functions_ well enough in theory - and then, in practice, is a bizarrely organized, unpatterned, unpredictable _mess_ of scribbles on walls and shattered bits of chalk and threateningly jabbed pencil stubs and powerful glares comprised of every ounce of concentrated Glaswegian fury. He’s a wreck. He’s out of his mind. He’s _in_ his mind, lives in it pretty much, _way_ too much. He’s out of touch. He’s a handful. He slips out of everyone’s fingers. He’s a Grade-A expert in making sure that people either can’t fathom him or find him too utterly dislikeable to _bother_ fathoming, and does a damn good job not being understood in either scenario. Maybe he prefers it? You know what, he probably _does._ He probably _likes_ being seen as the elusive, hyper-intelligent, scheming super-genius who ghosts through _Destiny_ ’s hallways and hunches sleeplessly over consoles, working to absurd hours and to the point of _literal collapse_ a few times, and he probably secretly likes the fact that some half dozen crew members have approached Eli to ask in muttered undertone if the guy is actually _human_ or if he’s actually from _Earth,_ because he sure doesn’t act like it, look at that, look at him, look at how he never freaking _sleeps_ because that can’t be normal.

He just plain doesn’t _act_ normal, is what it is. Who scribbles on _walls?_ Who straight-up forgets to _eat?_ Who manages to be an insufferable _dick_ twenty-four-seven while simultaneously way too intelligent to be seen as expendable? Who throws himself unremittingly at problem after problem after problem after _problem_ without breaking to close his eyes for twenty goddamn minutes?

He’s _completely irrational,_ and then he’s _fully_ rational, and that’s the problem. Can’t argue with the math. Can’t argue with the logic. Can’t argue with the equations coating every surface within arm’s reach. But the glowering Scotsman who cooked up said equations after like seventy-two hours of no sleep? _That’s a little questionable._

Eli’s pretty sure the guy doesn’t smile. Like, at all. Maybe once? Maybe he had something stuck in his teeth, or it was that nasty kind of disparaging smirk he sometimes gets, or even _worse_ that blade-thin smile that just reeks of some kind of intent for duplicity even if Eli hasn’t really worked out what Rush’s _game_ is yet, not really.

And then there’s the fact that out of everyone on the _entire crew,_ Rush seems to have zeroed in on Eli, _Eli specifically,_ to be his ultra-important assistant or something, and with little to no regard for the difficult position _this_ lands Eli in, of course, what with the circumstantial political dispute type thing that Eli _so_ does not care about it, like, aren’t they all on the same side? _Is that not a given?_ But no, there’s Young and there’s Rush and they’re the clear-set polar opposites, which of course lands Eli very squarely in the middle, simultaneously being pulled in two different directions at once. And no one consults _Eli_ on this. No one asks if _he’s_ okay with this. No. Of course not. That would be too _nice._ This is why he can’t have nice things.

It also lands him out of bed at 3 AM, or the approximation of 3 AM when it’s eighty people in space which is totally relative and _god_ this is officially Way Too Early for Rush to be radio-ing him. _Way. Too. Early._

“What the _hell,_ Rush.”

_“Eli, control interface room. Now.”_

Hey, Rush, good morning and nice to hear from you too and how was your night? Oh, that’s right - you hail from some bizarro planet where sleep just _isn’t a thing_ so you never _care._ Does Rush just _not have_ circadian rhythms?

He probably doesn’t. He probably ruined them beyond the point of recognition. If that’s even a thing.

The guy isn’t really someone who operates under _any_ kind of rhythm or regularized system or anything. He just kinda - functions in a constant state of working and snapping at other people to keep working until eventually all his systems shut down out of sheer exhaustion. Constant stress. Constant overhaul. How does he _live?_ Is that the right word for it?

Oh, god. It’s also too early to debate completely not-relevant semantics. It’s too early to _care_ about _anything_ besides debating the very real temptation to just _not answer his radio_ and wordlessly tell Rush to shove it up his ass, Eli is getting some much-needed _sleep_ damn it, and he doesn’t need Rush’s freaking _permission_ to do something as _basic_ as that.

There’s another harsh burst of static. _“Eli.”_

Can someone actually communicate pure undiluted rage over radio waves?

That’s a question with little to no scientific bearing, but Eli’s pretty sure he’s just found the answer regardless.

He sighs. Yep. Nope. Not gonna happen. The very concept of five hours of uninterrupted sleep is just _way_ too optimistic a notion to survive contact with a cynical misanthropic hard-ass like _freaking Rush._

He’s there in about five minutes, shuffling and yawning per the norm, and Rush - well.

Rush looks _awful._

Which, okay. That’s actually pretty normal. That’s _worryingly_ normal, if Eli was predisposed to worry about Rush, which he _isn’t,_ because Rush is a _jerk_ who doesn’t care about _anyone_ so _why_ in the _name_ of all things holy should Eli extend the same courtesy to him? He shouldn’t. He doesn’t. Really. So there.

It’s pretty obvious Rush hasn’t slept in like, days, probably. Almost definitely. Whatever counts for “days” here, which is blah, blah, blah, subjective, time is vestigial and habitual and based on defunct circadian rhythms here in the dead vacuum of space and Eli stopped caring at _least_ since this whole _Destiny_ debacle began. Which is still technically Rush’s fault, by the way. And it’s not like the guy’s _denied_ it either, which almost makes it _worse_ because it’s like, yep, he’s _fully aware_ of the overpoweringly shitty thing he did by stranding them all here with such a flimsy excuse (not that Eli would know because he definitely doesn’t, really, he only just started familiarizing himself with the varied and manifold sub-types of physics that go into calculating for _wormholes)._ No, actually, that’s _exactly_ it: Rush is totally aware of it. He’s totally aware that no one likes or trusts or even tolerates him most of the time, that he’s definitely the most hated person on the entire goddamn ship, that like seventy percent of the people here would strand him on the next planet, habitable or not, just on principle, if he hadn’t gone and made himself so fucking _indisposable._ Everyone _hates_ him. He definitely knows it. He just doesn’t _care._

That’s honestly a little bit terrifying. Like, okay, Eli _guesses_ it’s a bit, well. He doesn’t wanna say it, but - _cool._ “Cool” as in, this guy is a freaking _academic_ but he’s got nerves of _freaking titanium_ and while he’s kind of this weirdly unstable hyper-genius most of the time, once they’re caught in a crisis he is _on point._ He treats the whole thing with this concentrated disdain. Like, god, do we have to be under attack from alien ships _now,_ because he was in the middle of something _important_ and this is really just getting in the way of that, and these murderous genocidal aliens are _so_ not worth his time. Crisis gets averted, and he goes right the _fuck_ back to work like he didn’t spend twenty-six straight hours fending off some hostile alien attack and generally not sleeping a wink.

Right now Rush is probably looking fifty percent genius-eccentric style of dishevelment, thirty percent pure undiluted irritation, and twenty percent “it’s four a.m. and I’m ready to kill a man.” This is not a safe place for Eli to be standing currently. He’s pretty sure.

“So, hi,” he says.

Rush makes a noise. It’s kind of hard to tell what he means by it, but it’s probably something contemptuous and/or annoyed since those two responses are pretty much the frequent toppers of Rush’s emotional roster, right up there with “anger” and “really damn tired,” if “tired” counts as an emotion. Eli’s counting it. It totally counts. He’s feeling it _right now,_ even.

> **_tired (n):_** the state of being when one’s eyes itch, one’s temper is at its breaking point, and one is deeply resentful of being hauled out of bed in the middle of one’s irregular sleep cycle.

There. Defined. Out here in space, the laws of the English language need not apply. That makes it legit.

Rush doesn’t say a word.

He points to the console opposite him without looking up.

Eli sighs.

Yep. All right. Cool. This is his life now. At the beck and call of potentially delirious, possibly insane, pathologically obsessive Scottish scientist who is directly responsible for the _hell_ Eli’s life has become since he made fateful contact with the nerd-equivalent of an urban legend everyone called the Dakara Weapons Puzzle.

Thanks, Rush. Thanks for that. 

You’re a real pal.


End file.
